


Acutus

by settledownfrohike



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/settledownfrohike/pseuds/settledownfrohike
Summary: My Valentines contribution. Written a bit tipsy and hastily on my phone, un-beta’d, natch. Posted via mobile.Spoilers: everything up to s10 (I think, depending on your interpretation)Rating: NC-17Trigger warnings: mentions of depression





	Acutus

Perhaps Valentines Day wasn’t the best time to start venturing out as an official couple again on their therapist- prescribed ‘date night’.

Dinner went as well as could be expected, and she might have had one too many glasses of house red to ease her nerves and abate the tension. The restaurants are crowded with other couples—some laughing, some quiet, others clearly going through the motions, checking their watches. The close proximity and bustling noise make Mulder nervous, isolation has made him hypersensitive and fidgety. But he’s trying for her, for them. Not even the deepest of depressions could smother his New England breeding. He’s pulled out her chair, led her expertly in a gentle foxtrot to Sinatra, been attentive and complimentary, and anyone who didn’t know him as well as she does would never have noticed his lack of appetite, or his incessant swallowing as if a dinner roll were caught in his throat. The food is delicious and they are still companionably quiet at their table, which is a relief, but the environment with its scraped linens and roses and music, combined with the scent of rich sauces and overbearing perfume is the equivalent of a romantic pressure cooker. Before dessert menus can be suggested by the over-solicitous waiter, Scully takes pity on him and slides her hand over his.

“Let’s go home,” she suggests calmly.

He interprets her subtle meaning perfectly, but is caught off guard nonetheless. Her eyes are steady and sure enough for the both of them, though, even though her mind is all but screaming that this is too soon. But it’s Valentines Day, damnit. And she’s had a little too much wine, she’s feeling frisky and pliant, and he looks good enough to eat. Even when his eyes are clouded, the melancholy in his features suits him, even his bone structure lends to a forlorn sort of beauty. She wants him. She wants his hands and his body and being in his presence lately just isn’t enough.

He kisses her knuckles as they pull into the drive, and she feels a trill of hopeful anticipation flutter around her rib cage. Sometimes she forgets that despite their recent distance, he is still the man who knows and loves her best. He’s still in there, and he’s fighting his way back.

The kitchen floor is slippery and cool to her stockinged feet, a contrast to the flush in her cheeks. She is pouring them each a glass of the bottle they bought from that winery how many years ago, and he is behind her nuzzling and nipping, sending gooseflesh over her skin and heat to her groin. She giggles uncharacteristically and uses her bottom to push him off, encouraged by the feeling of his thriving erection. He is undeterred, though, and presses her belly into the counter, retrieving the glasses from her hands, whispering “later” into her ear, and she mentally chides herself for putting him in the position to be the smart one, to remember that combining alcohol with antidepressants is not only contraindicated, it could be an impediment to his responsiveness to her. But something about his pragmatism seems off. Abruptly she pushes his hands away and turns to face him, noting with dismay that his expression is one of practiced enthusiasm. Her temper flares but is quickly extinguished.

“Hey,” Her hands are on his face and stroking behind his ears, the way she knows renders him totally helpless. “we don’t have to do this if you aren’t ready.”

The best thing about their rehabilitated relationship is that they are consciously avoiding evasive tactics. They cut to the chase because lying to each other would only be an excise in futility. Briefly he looks offended, but just as quickly his face turns sorrowful, knowing full well she’s seen straight through his carefully orchestrated seduction. He pulls her close and kisses her forehead in apology. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want this,” he says to her hairline, “I just….its like….wanting chocolate cake…even though my taste buds don’t work anymore.” She can feel him close his eyes above her. “I remember what it was like…to feel things. But right now it’s, it’s like I feel everything, and nothing all at the same time.”

Her hand travels to the nape of his neck and she lifts her face to kiss that button chin she’s secretly obsessed with.

“It’s ok, “ and she smiles, genuinely smiles up at him, so utterly thankful for his honestly that her earlier plans now seem trivial. “It will get better.”

He’s searching her eyes for any trace of pity, and finds none. And something about that sends his libido surging. He kisses her, eyes open, so he can gauge her reaction, and she lets him, complicit. Standing at such close proximity, she can feel his heart thud, causing the buttons of his dress shirt to shiver. Large palms grip her buttocks and hoist her round his waist with little effort. Thicker in his later season, the effort that he has put in to fight his demons has paid off.

The next few moments occur in flashes, the trip around him and up the stairwell, her laughing in earnest and his hot breath at her neck. He drops her carelessly onto the bed and leers, unabashed, then gathers her skirt around her waist. Ever mindful of her expensive taste, he chooses not to rip her silk blouse away and instead carefully frees each button, pulling the cups of her bra down and away, flesh spilling forth. She knows that her acceptance has done wonders for his ego and by proxy his desire, and part of her wants to pick this moment apart, figure out who this new animal is. The hedonist in her does not care. Her nylons were discarded at some point, she does not remember when, and now his palm is at her mons, warm and reassuring.

“What do you want?” She can hear her voice, but cannot place where it originates.

“I want to feel….” his eyes are on her groin but unfocused. His thumb grazes her clitoris, “you. I want to feel you.” And he’s suddenly ripping at his belt, zipper, freeing himself.

He places her hands at her inner thighs, presses, opens her. She is a willing oblation. He teases her first, entranced by the way his shaft now glistens and slides through her folds, then enters her with an audible grunt. This acute focus he has right now on their sex, his reveling in the sensation, it’s arousing to the point it’s making her delirious. His eyes are glazed over, onyx black and focused solely on where his body is entering hers. His pace is purposeful, deep and perfectly rhythmic, like good blues. He’s loud tonight. He’s vocalizing his pleasure, almost constant moans making its way past unmoving lips, deep from his chest and increasing in pitch and desperation. He’s positively entranced and it thrills her, god it thrills her to watch him get off on her this way. He’s wholeheartedly objectifying her, they both know it. He can’t stop himself. And she’s loving it. She is so swollen and aroused, tender and leaking as an overripe peach. The ridge of his glans presses on the front of her wall with purpose and the sensation feels like a spinal block, warmth and heaviness flooding her from the waist down. Her own climax is close, just a few swipes and her body would start to milk his. But something about the way he’s gazing down makes her not want to obstruct the view. So she pulls back, spreads herself wider and revels in victory when his expression turns pained and desperate.

Mulder has always been a giving lover, an intuitive one and he knows what she’s needing. But tonight is about him, and she finds herself being the one to try and hold out. He’s not making it easy. As much as he’s studying her, she cannot avert her eyes from the sinewy flex of his obliques as he pumps into her. There’s a new-penny shine of sweat concentrated at the apex of his clavicle she would love to lick clean. He grunts again, curses her name and that does it. She writhes and arches, possessed, as her orgasm seizes her. Waves of pleasure arc their way through her body, causing her internal muscles to contract, then quake in its release. He watches, triumphant and slack jawed. She is left quaking, with goose flesh and chattering teeth. When he allows himself to come, it chokes him silent. He collapses atop her, the distended veins in his throat and fluttering of his eyelids being the only hint at its intensity. His orgasm explodes and then seems to reabsorb, an endothermic process, and she can swear his body temperature rises 10 degrees. He’s a specimen of physics, her lover, and that in itself is intoxicating. She she luxuriates in the feel of his pubis as it pulses and contracts, spilling into her. He comes and comes, and she wonders how long it must have been for him. His breath is rainforest warm and wet at her throat.

Finally sated, he’s tender but spent and weak as a kitten. At times like this, she feels so exquisitely close to him. It is as if any separation were a ruse, a disguise, and this physical joining were their true form, hidden away in secret and brought to life by a certain kind of moon, like one of his beloved cryptids. His muttered gratitude is hoarse but genuine, and she knows he’s expecting a “you’re welcome” of some sort, but her endorphin-soaked brain has one phrase on loop and it’s all she can think to counter with.

-“I love you.”-

fin


End file.
